Raw
by Ace-of-spades3
Summary: Another night of drunken promiscuity for Amarant leads his mind to dark places that he'd rather not re-visit. Oneshot.


She screams. I groan.

We get the job done.

It's convenient, it's efficient, we both get what we want, one way or another. I grab the hips that are grinding religiously atop of mine firmly, pulling myself deeper into her, before rolling her unceremoniously onto her back, roughly forcing my weight upon her slim, lithe body. It elicits both a satisfying gasp of choked surprise from her and a further degree of control for me.

I've never exactly been gentle in the sack. I've never made love. I've never even given a damn about my partner's pleasure. In the unlikely event that I finish first, I don't make up for it elsewhere with crafty fingers or by putting my sharp tongue to good use. I dismount, clean myself off and leave before I catch a glimpse of those eyes, yearning, searching, grasping for a shred of emotion to dignify the act that we committed for the sake of our natural, carnal desire.

She claws away at my heaving chest, grasping hard, stony muscle when really she's just trying to grasp hard, stony heart. I continue my repetitive, heated rhythm, uttering the foulest things, dubbing her with names that even I would be uncomfortable using outside of this situation. I find myself with a vague disgust for her, allowing someone to treat her like that. She cheapens her soul every time I spit another lewd, degrading name at her, yet it arouses her more. Is that some kind of remote, sad irony? And yet still, with this disdain and disrespect, I still bite viciously at her nipple, grasping her wrists painfully and forcing them to lay either side of her head on the pillow. If she wanted to escape, she'd have no hope of doing so. I have her trapped, with both my strength and the sheer, hulking mass of muscle that makes me who I am. And that flicker of fear that crosses her face does more for me than a low cut top or fancy lingerie ever did.

It's a kink, I guess. I like to see them swallow a little in fear, their little hands balling up the sheets beneath them, their breath catch in their throat. Everyone's scared of me; why wouldn't they be? I don't exactly come across as the kind of guy you'd like to get to know better or hold hands with or take to meet your parents. I'm the kind of guy you meet at a bar and have to get blind drunk to even consider taking home for a quick fuck. The kind of guy that you think might prefer to kill you than kiss you. But what can I say? I've never had trouble getting women. I guess a lot of them like the fear as much as I do.

I retract from my conquest a moment, almost hesitating in the total dissatisfaction that my satisfaction is giving me, and in the moment that I pull away, I begin to pull out. She feels it immediately; with me, it'd be hard not to notice. I'm not gonna mince words. I'm pretty fuckin' huge. And I'm not talking about my muscles now. I mean, I'm not just showing off either – look at the size of me. Suffice to say that everything is in proportion. It's only fair to take my word for it that you'd be hard pressed to find an equal. I'm not fuckin' bragging either, if that's what you're thinking. I'm just stating fact as fact stands. Because the thing is, the second any girl I take back to my room gets a look at it, two things happen: they get scared and they get really fuckin' wet.

And I just used to love breaking girls in. I was always too big for them, always, and sometimes I could _really_ hurt these girls. Sometimes they even bled. But what do I care, right? These bitches were dumb enough to try it with me. I mean, they've gotta have no common sense to even try it with a guy my size. I know, I know, I'm a sick son of a bitch. I'd never warn them, never go slow, never take it gently with them. I like it rough. I like to make them scream and I don't care if it's in pleasure or pain. That's who I am, I'm selfish, cruel and hedonistic. Except...

"Amarant..."

Her voice brings me back to the present. I look down at her face, contorted with pleasure and just a little sharp hint of discomfort at the foreign size and girth that she has forced herself to endure. She's a beautiful girl. They always are. She's slender, small, exotic. Her dark eyes belie a soft innocence, even when she moans my name like sugar on the tip of her soft little tongue. Every single part of her is finely shaped, breasts, hips, firm little buttocks that I just can't resist grabbing and pulling, thrusting her even harder onto my thick shaft. She cries out in pain at that, and rightly so really. She's trying to hide it, but she's biting her lip so hard that I think she might draw blood. I should probably let myself finish now, give the poor girl a rest, but I just don't want it to be over yet. And I always get my way.

Except with _her_.

You may have been struck by just how disjointed and jaded I appear to be, slap bang in the middle of tearing this poor girl in two. Surely, after everything I've just described, I'd be happy to have some submissive little kitten mewing on the bed beneath me, allowing me to treat her like a piece of shit? No such luck for me. Instead, no matter who I'm fucking, all I see is _her_. I could be gazing deeply into the finest, sultriest brown eyes on the planet and all I'll want is the mischievous sparkle of an emerald. I could be yanking back the hair of some blonde bimbo in order to kiss and suck hard at her neck, and all I'd yearn for is the soft, silken waterfall of silver to pool out across my chest as she sleeps beside me. I could be looking at the fullest, firmest breasts blessed on Gaia and my head would redirect me to the modest curve of her small, inadequate, perfect chest.

Yes, my thoughts inevitably lead me to her body, and indiscreet thoughts about her body inevitably lead me to indiscreet thoughts about what I would do with her body. So whilst ravaging the exotic beauty whose slender legs are currently locked about my waist, in my head I am performing all sorts of misdeeds with another woman. A woman who I will always consider the only woman worth my time. Worthy of laying softly down onto the bed and running a hand up and down her soft, porcelain body, all the while without removing my eyes from hers, to kiss along her jawbone with the tenderness privy to none but her. Even lying on the bed with her, my fingers idly unbuttoning her blouse, the night's proceedings would still be a mystery to me. Without furious and hasty disrobing and kisses that seem more like fights, I'd be unsure of whether she even wanted me until I felt her little tail wrap shyly about my ankle. She'd be as nervous as me, of course. She's no fool, unlike the other girls. She'd have already made the connection between my size and my endowment and she is just the littlest thing. If I took her in my arms, I'd be afraid that she'd snap between my ungraceful fingers, that her perfect, frail little figure would crumble at my hands. She'd have the good sense to feel apprehensive about a union between the two of us. There's always a certain danger with liaisons between two such different creatures. But when the slightest fear would flicker across her face, I'd just hold her tighter. I'd never want _her_ to be afraid of me. Those that don't matter can shake in their boots while I fuck them for all I care, but I would never wish fear upon her. When my fantasy has rendered all of our clothes successfully removed, my imagination blurs a little. Because by that point, my daydream has aroused me to the point of oblivion. All I ever remember from my imagining is softly, softly, inching into her, trying not to hurt her with our unnatural union, feeling her loins adjust to my size at an agonisingly slow rate, holding her close when she cries out in pain, rocking together in a rhythm met by the two of us together and feeling her walls contract and throb tightly around my length, bringing the two of us to a breathless, screaming climax.

And often I get a little carried away. Like now for instance. I am brought back from my reverie by the pained screams of my bed partner. Happens a lot, when I start to think about _her_. I've lost control, lost all sense of rhythm and dignity and focused solely now on the fact that I want _release_. Release from what, the agonising hard on or the damned woman that keeps sauntering into my head without a care in the world, royally fucking me up? Both. Right now, there's only one I can deal with and Lord if it doesn't come soon I'm a little worried that I'm really going to do this girl some damage. I'm slamming into the girl, pounding my too big length into her too tight entrance but all I can do is moan and roar and swear and finally when skin meets blood meets sweat meets love I come undone with a cry that surprises even me; a cry and but one name that spills out of my mouth as involuntarily as the seed from my manhood.

"Freya...!"


End file.
